


The Funnier Franklin's Guest Column

by yuletide_archivist



Category: My Boys (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-24
Updated: 2008-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy Franklin writes a guest column for P.J. Franklin to tell the story of how she became a rabid baseball fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Funnier Franklin's Guest Column

**Author's Note:**

> This website answers why P.J. is a Cubs fan, rather than a Tigers fan: http://weblogs.newsday.com/sports/watchdog/blog/2008/08/my_boys_boss_responds_to_withe.html.
> 
> Written for mazily

 

 

I know that you're all very excited to be reading today's column for the sole reason that it's being written by a guest writer, Andy Franklin, P.J.'s older brother (although I prefer to call myself The Funnier Franklin). I'll admit that when I was younger I used to love when mom and dad would ship P.J. off to "summer camp," (which I think was a wayward girl reform program to mold P.J. into their traditional ideas of what women should be like, complete with pink socks and subservience training) and I'm approaching this guest spot as the metaphorical summer camp of P.J.'s column.

Now, in honesty, the reason I'm writing this is because P.J. is at an (alleged) sports writers' conference in Miami (although I'm skeptical because all the conferences I go to are in places like Omaha, Nebraska). Apparently there are supposed to be some high-level talks about reforming the World Series to avoid potential duds like the rain delays/rain-outs of this year's World Series. Truth be told, I didn't watch any of the World Series coverage this year because I had forgotten that Philadelphia even had a team--when I heard it was the Phillies versus the Rays I thought it was a joke and that Bud had cancelled the Series this year. I guess the joke's on me, huh fellas?

Anyway, I "promised" P.J. that the focus of this article would be to tell her story of how she got into sports, with an emphasis on her fanatical love of baseball, so that potential readers might gain the tools necessary to force their daughters into a mold of anti-establishmentarianism. What P.J. fails to remember is that this isn't necessarily an entertaining story because her rabid pursuit of sports was a result of her being hit in the head by a baseball at six years old. In the interest of full disclosure, I might have been the one who was actually hit in the head by a baseball, but since I'm writing this article, we're going to say that this is P.J.'s story, okay?

It's late in the 1984 season and Ryne Sandberg is having a great year, hitting in the high .360's, and my dad has four tickets to the Cubs/Reds game at Wrigley Field because he's sure this is the year they're actually going to do something. These are really good seats, about a third of the way down the first base line, right over the dugout. But, P.J. being P.J., she doesn't really want to watch the game, instead she brought a biography of Ronald Reagan, Politics: Hollywood Style, with her. (If you're thinking that P.J. is a little young to have been reading political biographies at the age of six then you're reading this article a little too closely, and I suggest you go have a beer and come back after you've taken a nap.) So, it's the bottom of the ninth, Cubs are down by two, one out, Dernier is on second, and Sandberg is up to bat. He's facing Mario Soto, the strong North Paw (Can you use "North Paw" to refer to right-handed pitchers?) who has a respectable ERA around 3.5 at this point in the season.

Sandberg taps the dirt off his cleats and steps into the batter's box. A hush falls over the crowd, we're silent with anticipation for this first pitch; the only sound is the rustling of P.J.'s book. Soto throws a curveball, high and tight, inside--ball. You can hear the crowd exhale. Sandberg settles back into the box, Soto shakes off a call, shakes off another call, and finally gets what he's looking for. Windup, release, it's a slider that breaks low and away at the last second--swing and a miss. Groans all over the stadium. Our hopes ride on Sandberg being able to get a hold of a pitch. Sanberg gets the sign from his third-base coach, and steps back into the box, even from the first-base side I can tell he's determined. Soto stands tall on the mound, kicks, releases, a curve ball that meets with the sweet spot of Sandberg's bat. But here's where the story gets interesting (if, to you, stories are interesting when they involve physical pain amidst children), Sandberg was late and the ball goes foul down the first baseline. The ball is sailing straight for our family, I've got my mitt out, but P.J.'s face is buried in her book; she hardly has time to look up before seeing the red stitches heading straight for her. I can't be certain, because this didn't happen to me, but I speculate that the only thought running through her mind was, "This will teach me to read a book at a baseball game."

The ball made a sickening cracking sound when it smacked into her forehead, leaving a line of v-shaped grooves and "MLB" emblazoned across her skin. I should point out that our parents were nothing if not sympathetic to her plight; our dad said, "Put that stupid book down, people will see you and think you're a fairy." (If you're thinking that seems like a weird thing for a dad to say to his daughter, then you're still reading this too closely and you need to go eat a very large sandwich and take another, longer nap.)

The long-term effect of the baseball to the head is that P.J. never again wanted to be caught with her head down when it came to sports, it was just too dangerous. She watched everything, learned everything she could, and became the fantastic sports writer you all know and love (and read faithfully) today. The moral of this story, if you're one of those dads looking to turn their daughter into a sports nut, hit her in the head with a baseball that's coming off a bat around 82 miles per hour, and warn her that it was her fault for not paying better attention.

Best of wishes in your child abuse, let me know if you're in need of a good lawyer, and be sure to read next week's article when P.J. returns from her conference-a-cation. 

 


End file.
